


No Regrets

by pagination



Series: Words are Hard [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Ultimateverse), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Pick-Up Lines, Clint's addiction is to collecting pick-up lines by the way, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, and also Phil, in case it isn't clear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:35:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7085839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with addictions is that once they start, they're really hard to stop.</p><p>Clint has no regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Regrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jantique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jantique/gifts).



> Because [Jantique](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jantique/pseuds/Jantique) left an excellent pick-up line in my comments and I immediately started writing a story response to her, which (as is usual for me) immediately spiraled out of control....
> 
> Don't leave any more, people. Because I have no self-control.

Clint isn't sure he heard it the first time, the club is so fucking loud, which is why he stops mid-step and turns. The kid standing frozen behind him is already looking panicked, that frozen, deer-in-headlights (or maybe rabbit) stillness that hopes a predator will miss him if he doesn't move or, say, breathe.

"Come again?" Clint says.

The kid squeaks. " _IfIsayI'mafancanI_ \--!" he manages to squeeze out, high-pitched, before he runs out of air and goes dully red.

He has to be over twenty-one to even be in this place, though he probably hates those genes that make him look a befuddled fifteen-year old in thriftstore clothes. The kid even has his drink in hand, though the ice cubes are rattling hard against the glass; score a big zero on the 'looking cool and confident' test of clubbing. Liquid courage might have made him brave enough to approach Hawkeye the Avenger, but it's doing shit all to keep him going after contact.

And now that Clint looks, he spots the two onlookers grinning as they watch by the bar. College kids look younger and younger every year, he swears. They're obviously with the boy, by the way he glances desperately back at them between coughs. One of them even offers the kid an unhelpful thumbs up, while the other one looks like he'll hurt himself if he doesn't laugh.

Clint eyes the kid fondly. By any standard it's a godawful pick-up line. One that Clint absolutely would have used on Phil if he’d thought of it. The kid was pretty brave trying to use it on him, all things considered. "Sorry," he says, wishing Fury would let him wear his engagement ring in public. "I'm already taken.”

The kid's face does a thing, squashing relief and regret together into weird face porridge. Regief? Something. Clint gets the feeling he didn’t have high hopes anyway. This is probably the fault of that GQ Magazine spread Pepper made him do. Remembering that fucking miserable photo shoot, which made him look even more menacing than Vogue, he adds, "You've got guts."

"Oh God," the kid says. Clint refocuses on him. The kid's gone pale. "Please don't hurt me. I didn't mean to offend you."

Clint realizes his face is doing the pissed-off killer thing they coaxed out of him at GQ. He blinks at the kid. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Are you really a fan? Because you look more like the Iron Man type."

"Oh God," the kid says again, completely white now. The ice cubes clink violently. That drink's going to spill at this rate.

He’s fucking adorable.

On a whim, Clint snags him by the shoulder and drags him after as he heads for the stairs to the VIP level. Sure enough, the drink goes all over the floor; the kid resists for maybe half a second before he starts skittering along after him.

The kid's lips move the entire way up the stairs, past the security Tony has on the doors, and it isn't until they're in the relative quiet of the foyer that Clint realizes he's chanting, " _I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die_ \--"

"If you don't learn to relax, you'll be bald by thirty," Clint tells him, and hauls him through the inner doors to the party going on inside.

The music's a lot better in here. It's also not loud enough that it'll kill any hope of conversation. Just as well. With the exception of Fury, Maria, Darcy, Tasha, and Sam, most of the people Clint knows here are shit dancers anyway. The kid digs in his heels just inside the door, less out of protest than what looks like pure shock.

Tasha’s the first person to spot them, so of course she immediately plasters herself to Clint, looks the kid up and down like he’s an _hors d’oeuvres_ , and purrs, “ _Kotyonok,_ I said to order me something strong, not something sweet.”

“He hit on me,” Clint says. “This is— what’s your name, kid?”

The kid wheezes something. It might be ‘Justin.’ Or maybe it’s ‘Black Widow.’ Or maybe not.

Doesn’t seem likely his name is also Black Widow. What are the odds.

Tasha’s eyes narrow. She knows Clint a little too well. “ _Did_ he? What line did he use?”

Clint whispers in her ear. Tasha’s face goes still. Justin quails. Clint, who can tell she’s trying not to laugh, grins at her. “ _Right?_ ” he says. Just then, he spies Steve and Phil heading towards him, and feels his face brighten. Tasha picked Phil’s clothes tonight, apparently, so he looks positively lickable in a purple shirt so dark it looks almost black, and grey slacks that perfectly complement the thing of beauty that is his ass. He’s also wearing his shoulder holster, so basically he looks like a lethal million bucks.

It’s a combination his dick is happy to stand up and applaud.

“Put your tongue back in your mouth, Hawkeye,” Tasha says, amused.

“Clint,” Phil says, coming up to them with a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Phil,” Clint says, hooking a finger in Phil’s open collar to pop open another button and dragging him close. “This is Justin. I invited him to the party.”

“Hi, Justin,” Phil says kindly, right before Clint presses close to give him a _hey, haven’t seen you in two days, how was the op, glad you’re not dead, can we leave now so I can jump your bones_ kiss.

“Nice to meet you, Justin,” Steve says, somewhere in the background. “I’m Steve Rogers.”

“Oh my God,” Justin burbles.

“Breathe,” Tasha says.

“Oh my _God_.”

“You don’t have a problem with two men being together, do you?” Steve asks, sounding concerned. Tasha’s low chuckle is counterpoint for another, “ _Oh_ my _God_ ,” from Justin.

The kid seems to be stuck in some kind of endless time loop. Fortunately, he addresses Steve’s question with a dazed, “That’s _so hot_. Oh my God. I’m going to die. Who is he? He looks like he could kill me. Is he going to kill me? This is _amazing_.”

He’s starting to sound a little hysterical. Phil breaks their kiss, and raises an eyebrow at Clint. It’s his, _what did you do?_ look.

“He says he’s a fan,” Clint explains breathlessly. “He hit on me with the best line. You have to hear it. I want to keep him.”

Phil blinks once, which means, _be prepared for disappointment, but I love you anyway._ “I’m not going to kill you,” he tells Justin, who’s looking equal parts astonished, euphoric, and terrified at Tasha, Steve, Clint, and Phil in turn. It makes the poor kid look like a concussed gecko. “You’re welcome to join the party. I’ll just let security know. Feel free to wander around and meet people. I’ll have to ask you not to take any pictures, though.”

Justin’s head bobs so hard in agreement, it looks like it might fall right off. “Yes, sir!”

“Good boy,” Tasha says. “What’s your actual name?”

“Ganke,” Justin says. “Ganke Lee. Oh my God.”

“Did you use a fake ID to get into the club?” Tasha asks.

Ganke’s head does the bobbing thing again. Steve, who finds age-based limitations on drinking both arbitrary and ridiculous, and also has an illustrious history of ignoring laws that he thinks are arbitrary and ridiculous, just looks worried for Ganke’s spinal column.

“Phiiiiiiiil,” Clint whines.

“No you can’t keep him,” Phil says. “But he can stay, as long as he doesn’t drink. The age limitation’s for the downstairs business only.”

Tasha plucks the empty glass Ganke’s holding and drops it on the tray of a passing waiter. “There,” she says, tucking her arm into his. Ganke freezes; he looks like he might spontaneously combust. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll introduce you around. You may have a virgin Shirley Temple. I’ll make it for you myself.”

She steers the kid away, Steve trailing after like a great, golden cockadoodle of Justice.

“How much have you had to drink?” Phil asks Clint.

“He was a present for you,” Clint tries to explain. “He was cute, and he had this great line.”

“Don’t give me cute underage boys,” Phil says, looking reproachful. “I have to report all gifts in my tax paperwork and it wouldn’t look good if I got audited.”

Clint says earnestly, “‘If I tell you I’m a fan, can I blow your mind.’”

Phil pauses. A muscle in his face twitches.

“ _Right?!_ ”

“Come on.” It’s Phil’s turn to hook a finger in Clint’s collar now. He tugs gently, and begins leading the way through the crowd.

“Where are we going?”

“I have the key to the manager’s office. We’re going to have a long, private talk about this thing you have for collecting pick-up lines like souvenir teaspoons.”

Clint brightens. _This_ is the kind of party he can appreciate. "The word of the day is 'legs,'" he says, stretching his to pass Phil and grope some ass while he's at it. He knows where the manager's office is. Tony's got an amazing leather sofa in there that Clint's been eyeing. "Let's go and spread the word."


End file.
